Tuesday, January 9, 2018

For those who haven’t read, This is 40: Part I, check it out here. Wait, wow. I started this back in August? Time flies when you put stuff off....

***

I’ve spent a large portion of my adult life making mistakes,
learning from them, and feeling superior to my former self for being such a
dummy when I was younger. Then I make all new mistakes and I’m like “Future
Becky is really going to judge you harshly,” to which I remind myself that one
of the things I’m working on is to be a little kinder to myself. To which I’m
then like “oh c’mon, snowflake, a little self-criticism never hurt anyone,” to
which I’m like “Jeez, you may never learn this one fully, Beck.”

And that leads me to the “What are you still learning” part
of this series. And it’s probably the hardest one, if I’m being honest. Because
most of these fall under the category of being a better version of myself (I’m
a special snowflake), which means that I’m basically admitting that I’m not
slaying it currently, and the ways in which I’m not slaying it currently are
sort of basic, in a way. For example, this is an abridged version of the
running list in my head at all times:

Being more patient.

Caring less.

Caring more.

How to truly relax.

Traveling light.

How to load the dishwasher and actually get the stuff clean.

Letting it the f go.

Knowing when to hold onto it.

Accepting that I’m not always right.

Accepting that I’m not always wrong.

Finally buying underpants that fit me right, ohmygod.

How to judge less.

How to worry less.

Reading the directions to the very end.

Let me elaborate a bit.

Patience. This is
a biggie. Like, maybe the biggest, if you ask CB. Because it’s not one of my
many virtues – never has been. When I was a kid, one of the constants on my report card was “SLOW
DOWN. Doesn’t read directions carefully.” Or something to that effect (I was
too impatient to read the whole comment). Also, there was a lot of
“shhhhhhhhhh” and “socializes excessively in class” comments that I take as
clues to how slow everyone else was in getting through their assignments and
how much faster it goes when you don’t read the directions so you can talk to
your friends. I was basically a kid genius.

But even though I’m slightly
better at reading the directions these days, I really try to flex my patience
muscle when parenting and wife’ing. Especially when I’m doing them both at the
same time. Like, I’m continually asking my toddler to be patient, but if you’re
not ready to go with your shoes on, keys in-hand, and wallet in your pocket
after I’ve said “we’re leaving in two minutes” and I’ve dressed the kids,
packed the diaper bag, remembered the sunscreen, brought extra plastic bags for
the portable potty, made the plans, and shut off all of the lights….I’ll
visually cut you if you’re not ready, CB. And I don’t really hide it? Which is
the key to a happy marriage, I’ve learned.

So, patience. That’s one of the things I’m constantly trying
to practice and master (let’s just stick with practicing it right now
before we get too lofty with our goals. If I can make it a week without getting
impatient, we’ll move ahead to phase II of mastering. So, you know, never.)

Caring less while
caring more. This is a tricky one. Because it requires me to be aware of my
feelings, why I’m feeling them, and that requires, I don’t know, work. Which I’m not opposed to, but I’m
shocked at how often I find myself catching up to how I’m feeling days after I’ve been feeling that way.
Sometimes weeks. So maybe I should’ve added “being in touch with your emotions”
to my list, though CB would probably say that I’m too in touch with them since he called me a “professional crier” a
few weeks ago and I took it as a compliment. But don’t worry, crying is like
laughing to me, it just bursts from me and I get the feelings out and then I’m
totally fine afterwards. Like an insane person.

Anyway. So I care a lot
about what people think about me. I care what people I know and love think, and
I care what the barista at Starbucks thinks – not totally equally? But if CB
told me he loved me and I was great that day, but then I overheard the barista
telling the other barista that I add too much half and half into my coffee in a
judge-y way, I’d ONLY think about that for the rest of the day. And probably
never go back to that Starbucks! Additionally, I care what people reading this
blog might think about the fact that I sometimes go to Starbucks and what a
waste of money that is. And then I think about how I shouldn’t care about what
strangers think about my choices. Which is why I forget my keys at least once
every 5 months because my brain is cluttered.
And boy, being a mom has totally helped with me not caring what people think!
(said nobody ever.)

The point is, I care a lot about what people think about me,
and sometimes that’s good, sometimes that’s terrible. So what I’ve been working
on over the last few years is caring less
about what some people think about me
and more about the people I care
about. Like, instead of spending energy worrying that a stranger doesn’t like
me, I should spend more time checking in with friends and family to see how
they’re doing. Help them out, send a card “just because,” let them know I’m
thinking about them. This is my goal – do that more, care about the barista at Starbucks and his opinion less. #lifegoals

At the same time, I legitimately do not have the emotional
or mental bandwidth to give a shit about a lot of stuff that, ten years ago,
would’ve consumed me. Which I love about being 40. I mean, I’ve been doing it
for 1.5 months already and basically I’m like “All fixed!” Except for the stuff
above. And the other stuff I forgot to mention because I’m not a completest.

Loading a dishwasher.
This is less something I can’t do,
and something I sort of don’t care if I get right, but should care more about
because….I think it annoys CB? But also, maybe this could easily have gone on
the forthcoming “stuff I’ll just never care about” list. Like recycling. Which
I KNOW I should really, really, really care about, and do in theory, but not as much in practice since I will basically
just put stuff to be recycled in our recycling closet in our apartment and then
make CB sort and actually recycle it….which is better than I used to be, and so
I’ve taken it off the list because I’m all about progress over perfection when
it suits me.

But the dishwasher-loading thing seems like sort of a waste
of my energy, while making sure the bed is made properly with the pillow
zippers facing down seems like a totally
valid use of my time. Which is why I find myself muttering frustrations at CB
when it’s not done that way because, God, doesn’t he understand yet that I know
what I’m doing because I’m always right?

Monday, October 16, 2017

*I usually don’t get “political” on here because, well,
that’s no fun! But I’m making this one exception. Our regularly scheduled
program will be back in the next post!*

That time about a month ago when I got asked by a client if
I let my husband dominate at home. And then nearly everyone I re-told that
story to asked “Well, how old is that guy?” in order to assure me that if he’d
been younger, he wouldn’t have said that out loud because he’d know better.

Or the time a different client started making vibrator jokes
while I was talking with him at a professional conference about a potential project
together. Of course, I had it coming since my phone vibrated while we were
speaking and so, of course, the next logical discussion from one
professional to another is to start talking about vibrators.

Or the time I got propositioned by an executive several levels above me at my previous
job in front of a number of other employees at a holiday party. He wanted to
know where I lived and what train we could take back to my apartment. He was
married with children and this was the first and only conversation I ever had
with him…until the next morning when I had the uncomfortable experience of
being in the company elevator alone with him when he bluntly told me that last
night was “no big deal, right?” And he should know, since he had been party to a
worst-kept-secret affair with one of his employees the previous year that was
eventually ended and saw the female employee in the equation moved out of his
department and into another one so as not to “make waves.”

The “me too” phenomenon is going rampant on Facebook right
now, but let’s get real, it’ll end in a few days and nothing will have changed.
Why? Because, um…..did you read those stories? I’m one person. Those are three
of, like, literally dozens, if not more. And I’m one of the “lucky” ones! I’ve never
been groped or assaulted, I’ve never lost a job or had my reputation questioned
because of any of it. I’ve felt embarrassed, I’ve felt mild anger, I’ve felt…confused.
But that’s it. AND THAT’S A GOOD OUTCOME, you guys.

That’s what’s going on here. My stories about vibrators and
domination and being propositioned by someone who could end my career ARE THE GOOD
STORIES. And this is here in the United States, a country that is heads and
shoulders above hundreds in our strive for equality and in actual equality. And for that, I am grateful. But again –
that’s what’s going on here. I’m grateful that I’m not in a country that doesn’t
allow me to drive. I’m grateful that I’m
not in a country where I’m forced into marriage during puberty. I’m grateful that
I’m not in a country that doesn’t allow me to walk outside without a male
chaperon. I’m grateful.

I have not one man in my life who I think has ever or would
ever do anything remotely similar to those stories above, let alone assault a
woman. I do not think that men are evil or bad or just will never learn. I’m
surrounded by some of the best
examples of true men that any person could hope for, both in my personal and
professional life, and my daughters are being raised by the kindest, most
respectful man I’ve ever met.

At the same time, men – CB included - have no idea what a
day in the life of a “privileged” woman is like. Re-read my little anecdotes again.
Those are NON-stories. They didn’t even register beyond discomfort or embarrassment
or just shrugging it off as some old guy who doesn’t know better, some young
guy who’s gross, or some powerful guy who does this all the time.

“Me too” won’t change anything until we change. I never once said anything to any of those men, or the
others who have said gross and inappropriate things to me over the years for a
multitude of reasons. But mainly? I didn’t want to make things worse. I didn’t
want to offend them, God forbid, and I certainly didn't want to be seen as
difficult.

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Today I got asked by a stranger in my work elevator if I “regret”
that I have to come to work every day and leave my kids “alone.” So I laughed
and said “well, they’re not alone, they’re with their friends and caretakers at
daycare.” And she bristled. Like, I physically saw her recoil. “Daycare is no substitute for their mother!”

Thankfully for her, the elevator got to my floor before I
could slap her.

Which is on the heels of an off-hand comment in the gym
locker room last week by a new-ish mom (she had her first daughter just before
I had my second) who proudly told me that she resigned from her job a few weeks
ago after realizing that she “just couldn’t do that to my baby girl.” When I legitimately
was curious what she meant and said as much, she replied “let her be raised by
someone who’s not me.” She then went on to tell me how much kids benefit from
having their mom at home while I tried to blow dry my dry hair so I didn’t have
to listen to her rationale for why she’s better than me. To be fair, she didn’t
say she was better than me, she just
implied it in the following ways:

“You’ve never wondered what kind of long-term impact this is
going to have on your kids?”

“Doesn’t it break your heart to leave them every day?”

“Her well-being is more important than any corporate ladder…for
me. But everyone’s different.”

And to help round out your total vision of my last few weeks
(or two years) the following things have also been said to me about my
parenting:

“How do you juggle it all? It seems like your career is
thriving, so….do you get enough time with your kids?”

“I’m so impressed that you can leave your kids every day. I
could never do that.”

“Have you missed important milestones yet? That’ll be so
hard.”

And ladies? Every single remark was made by a woman: mom-on-mom
crime!

Sidebar: I asked my husband this morning if he’d ever gotten
asked if he’s considered quitting his job because of the kids or regrets
leaving them every day. He said no. He has people sympathize that leaving them
every morning is hard, but that’s as far as it goes.

So this is what I have to say:

Stop it. Stop with the Mommy Wars. Stop with the comparing
your life to others to make you feel superior or ease whatever guilt you might
be feeling. I get it. It’s hard. It’s hard to be a stay-at-home mom, it’s hard
to be a full-time-working mom, it’s hard to be a fricken MOM. It’s hard. But I
really don’t want to have a rap sheet for assault because my mom-guilt would increase
exponentially if I have to explain it to my kids while trying to teach them
that hitting is wrong.

I mean, yes, I’m pretty sure I missed the first time my
oldest learned to crawl and, hell, probably when she took her first steps. Don’t
get me wrong, the nice ladies at daycare were gentle enough with my ego to not tell me that they witnessed these
things first, but I’m not new here, it probably happened. And that’s ok. Because
they’re used to second-best, after all: I didn’t breastfeed them (“I feel so
sorry for you that you don’t get to feel that bond…”), fed them formula (“I
mean, I’m sure it’ll be fine, though obviously breast milk is best…”), didn’t
make my own baby food (“…I just didn’t want them consuming all of those
preservatives…”), and I let them eat macaroni and cheese (with preservatives!)
and watch cartoons (“…I’d just rather they get outside or read a book. We got
rid of cable altogether.”)

So please, just stop. Stop it. Stop with the mom-on-mom
crime of one-upping and condescending and thinly masked attempts at shaming.
Please stop. Put down your weapons, raise that white flag, and just say what we
all want to say: “Goddamn I’m so tired. Am I doing it right? Will my kids be
ok? It’s hard, isn’t it?” And the non-hugger in me will lay down my shield,
drop my giant mom-purse, and full-on hug you. Because goddamn I’m tired. It’s
hard, isn’t it?

Monday, September 25, 2017

So something you should know about me is that I’m not a
hugger. I mean, outside of my children - who I smother with hugs and kisses
until they literally push me away or yell “mommy, no smooches! ” - I will not
come near you. You’re welcome.

But this is simply because I don’t like being touched,
specifically hugged, by strangers, acquaintances, or people I’m really close
to. I find it sometimes forced, often unnecessary, and ALWAYS purely
uncomfortable for me and, by extension, the person who thought this gesture of
good will or intimacy or whatever would be well-received. Because, while the
other person is focusing (I guess?) on the bond between us, or how they’re
helping by pressing their body up against mine for 5-10 seconds, I’m wondering
how much longer this will last and whether I’ve done a good enough job conveying that this is really meaningful to me, too.

And then there’s my poor husband. Among our friends and
family he’s known as a no-joke great hugger. Like, people seek him out in times
of need because he gives these tremendous, genuine hugs that just make
everything better. Unless you’re me and you stand there as he hugs you, feeling
loved but also kind of wondering how long hugs typically last? Because you’re
good with it ending now but also don’t want to be rude. And you love him! And
he’s so tall and smells so good and sometimes you can genuinely just sort of
collapse into his arms and it is the greatest. But mainly I’m just counting
down from 10.

Anyway, this weekend a song came on the radio that reminded me
of earlier in the week when I was with a co-worker. This same song came on
while we were talking and she started crying which, thankfully, isn’t normal.
So I was like “are you ok?” and she said yes, but that the song reminded her of
her deceased mom. So, you know, not ok.

And so I stood there for a few seconds as she cried and
realized that I was probably supposed to do or say something? Because
typically when people emotion at me, I freeze. I’m a pretty empathetic and
compassionate person, don’t get me wrong, but it takes me a second to process
what’s happening. Weren’t we just talking about work?

So then we had this exchange:

Me: “Are you a hugger?”
Her, looking at me while crying: “What?”
Me: “Are you a hugger? Do you want me to hug you?”
Her, nodding yes.
Me, awkwardly hugging her, counting down from 10, and then
continuing with the conversation as her deceased mother’s music played in the
background.

It wasn’t awkward at all!

And so then I conveyed that story to CB and he started
laughing and said “you’re like an automaton.
‘Are you a hugger?’ Nobody asks that! They just hug!”

Me: “But what if she’s like me?”
CB: “The odds are very slim. Most people are normal and like
to know that you care that they’re crying and so you hug them.”
Me: “I thought I was being courteous by gauging her feelings
on the situation first. But you’re saying that she may have thought that was
weird?”
CB: “Everybody thinks that’s weird.”

My argument was
ill-received by him, but totally logical, you guys. Maybe I was lucky enough to
meet another me who doesn’t like being hugged and, when crying, does not feel comforted by your touch! But I
was wrong, apparently. And so I acted totally appropriately! Just as a good
human robot would.

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Blog alert: this post
will make apparent some of my largest parenting weaknesses. I’m aware of these
weaknesses, low on sleep and high on emotions, so be kind.

***

About two weeks ago, CB and I decided that our lives were
too stable and pleasant and so we decided to potty train our 2 year old. For
the non-parents among us, let me break it down for you:

You try to convince a person who still looks at the color
red and calls it yellow and has peed and pooped into a diaper since minute 2 of
her life that now it’s going to be really fun to hold it and pee and poop somewhere
else! Why is this fun? I don’t really know the answer, my dear, so instead I’ll
buy you a small, plastic toilet with eyes on it, some Peppa Pig underpants, and
remind you over and over that this is what “big kids” do. Oh! And we won’t be
leaving the house for, like, a week because pooping on the floor of CVS is
frowned upon and cabin fever is fun!

That’s potty training in a nutshell.

However, it actually was OK. As OK as that situation can be
given the fact that we also have another human being in the house who still,
apparently, needs our attention. And the fact that we stocked up on a lot of
paper towels and wine. (that’s my tip for all potty training parents: Bounty
and Pinot.)

The sneaky little devil part that not ONE SINGLE PARENT told
us about was the after-math of sleep. Now, to be fair, maybe we’re (a) awful
parents and this is all our fault, (b) our kid is just super awful and this is
all her fault, or (c) every parent blocked this part out of their brains
because it was too traumatizing/they didn’t want to admit they didn’t have it
all together at all times when they had two kids at or under two, full time
jobs, were potty training, and then the toddler decided that sleeping was for
punks. (for reference, it's not b).

Because that’s what happened. As of Monday, our sweet,
energetic, great sleeper of a toddler
gave a big middle finger to bedtime.

Night one: Normal
bedtime routine, put her down in the crib, close the door. She lets out a cry –
very unlike her – and you go in, soothe her, remind her to be quiet because her
8 month old sister is sleeping in her
crib, 4 feet away, and you leave and close the door. She cries one more time,
same drill as above, and she’s down for the night by 7:30.

Night two: Normal
bedtime routine, put her down in the crib, close the door. She lets out a cry –
very unlike her – and you go in, soothe her, remind her to be quiet because her
8 month old sister is sleeping in her
crib, you leave and close the door. She cries one more time, same thing. You
have a three and a half minute conversation with your spouse about how odd this
behavior is, she cries out again, this time in a shrill, pterodactyl-type way.
You run in, REMIND HER MORE FIRMLY THAT HER SISTER IS SLEEPING, close the door.
Screams. Now her sister is up too and you’re over this shit. You and your
husband grab her from the crib, take her in another dark room, and use your
best YOUR PARENTS ARE PISSED voices while explaining to her that this is not
ok. This goes on for about two minutes (which is an eternity in toddler time),
you give her a little cup of milk, read her one more story, and she’s down for
the night. You high five with your husband that you definitely got through to her this time and peacefully watch
the final episode of Narcos at
7:50pm.

Night three: Normal
bedtime routine, put her down in the crib, close the door. She lets out a cry –
more and more like her – and you go in, soothe her, remind her to be quiet
because her 8 month old sister is sleeping in her crib, 4 feet away, you leave and close the door. She cries one
more time, same thing. You have a three and a half minute conversation with
your spouse about how odd this behavior is, she cries out again, pterodactyl in
the house, you run in, REMIND HER MORE FIRMLY THAT HER SISTER IS SLEEPING,
close the door. Screams. Her sister is awake and screaming now, too. You want
to take your own life but, instead, you and your husband grab her from the crib,
take her in another dark room, and use your best YOUR PARENTS ARE PISSED voices
while explaining to her that this is not ok. She then tells you she has to
poop, you and your husband jump like the jokers you are, grab the potty with
eyes, she pees into it, and you tell her what a great job she did by letting
out half an ounce of urine at 7:45pm. She’s very proud, knows that she’s won
and dominates the earth, and goes to sleep happily.

Night four (last
night): Normal bedtime routine, put her down in the crib, close the door.
She lets out a cry – completely like her at this point – and you go in, soothe
her, remind her to be quiet because her 8 month old sister is sleeping in her crib, 4 feet away, and you leave and
close the door. She cries one more time, same thing. You have a thirty second
conversation with your spouse about how this behavior has GOT TO STOP as she
cries out again, this time, completely throwing caution to the wind. You swing
the door open, REMIND HER MORE FIRMLY THAT HER SISTER IS SLEEPING, though now
you realize that’s not true, grab her from the crib, take her in that same dark
room, and use your very ineffectual YOUR PARENTS ARE PISSED voices while
explaining to her that this is not ok, though, who cares at this point? Clearly
nobody in this room.She then tells you she has to poop, you and your husband
jump like the jokers you are, grab the potty with eyes, she pees into it, you
tell her what a great job she did, she’s very proud, knows that she’s won and
dominates the earth, and tricks you into thinking she’ll go to sleep.

You eat a Ceasar salad in the dark for the next seven
minutes while she scream-cries and your husband goes in and loses his mind in a
whisper until she seemingly, miraculously understands logic, and he comes out.

It’s quiet, but you know better. You both start
whisper-talking like the captives you’ve become and start to Google “toddler
sleep regression” as she lets out a scream that can only mean that someone has climbed
up to the 10th floor window, gotten into her room, and decided to
take your curly haired toddler and stab her with needles all over her body. You
go in this time while your husband eats his salad standing up in a dark kitchen
and she monkey climbs up your body while hyperventilating and you realize that
you’ve lost. She’s won. You’re a failure. She’s the queen.

Also, you flash to this conversation you had with her not 12
hours earlier:

Which should’ve been your first indication that maybe the
logic and reason route wouldn’t work. THINK, Becky, THINK. What has worked in
the past? Consistency. What does she respond to? Structure and consistency.
What does every toddler thrive on? Pushing boundaries and seeing how far you’ll
bend to their will. What are you doing wrong in this scenario? Everything.

And so obviously the only logical solution is that you take
her into your room, rip back the covers, and get into bed.

Mom brain: “It’s 8:15, it’s an hour past her bedtime and you
guys aren’t fixing this tonight. She needs to sleep.”

Dad brain: “Um, wtf are you doing? No, she’s going back to
her bed.”

Spoiler alert: OF COURSE he was right, I know. Please don’t
tell me, I need no extra advice on this. I know he was right and I was wrong
and my mom guilt and exhaustion got the better of me.

And then, like magic, he talked to her for a few minutes, worked
his goddamned voodoo magic, and she went to bed. Until 4am.

Which is why you’re now on your third cup of coffee before
10am and blogging to strangers asking for help. While Google has told me that toddler
sleep regression during potty training is completely normal, I’m looking for
tips. What’s worked for you? Do we essentially just sleep train her like she’s
6 months old again? We plan on moving her sister out of their room and into our
room until we can get this taken care of. Because the last thing we need is two little ones who hate us and the world
because they had a super disruptive sleep. Also, the lovely ladies at daycare do not need this shit.

Monday, September 11, 2017

In light of the fact that today is the anniversary of 9/11, this blog post will be slightly different than the norm. We’ll get right back to the randomness and (hopefully) laughs later in the week, but each year at this time I take a moment to step back, remember, and reflect.

Many of you know that I moved out to New York back when I was 23 years old and fresh off of the farms of Michigan State University (literally and figuratively). One of my best friends and I ventured out on our own for the very first time in our lives, leaving all of our friends and family and comforts behind, driving the U-Haul some 700 miles with our goldfish tucked safely in his bowl in the front seat. It was the end of August 2001 and we could not have been more excited or nervous for what life had in store for us.

We didn’t have too much: no phone, no cable, and a one bedroom apartment so narrow you couldn’t pull out the sleeper couch without moving the tv into the kitchen. We. Had. Arrived.

So on the morning of September 11th, I was just excited to be in the shadows of the city. I was excited to be going into my second week of work, walking what was quickly becoming my “usual route” to the PATH train, thinking about how I couldn’t believe I was really here. But as I got closer and closer to the train station, something felt different.

Garbled announcements were blaring over the loud speakers and people looked quite literally dazed and confused as they filed onto an already over-crowded train and into an air conditioned car, out of the muggy September heat. Some guy on the train kept talking about how one of the towers of the World Trade Center had been hit by a plane, maybe flown by terrorists. It was about 9am and we really couldn’t be bothered with "the crazy guy on the train," so everyone kind of shuffled away from him, rolled their eyes, and held their papers a little higher to avoid eye contact. I obviously wanted to be just like the other New Yorkers, so I turned away from him and tried to settle the unease that was growing in my stomach.

And then I stepped onto 6thavenue.

That view I’d so quickly grown to love was covered in black smoke. There weren’t any cars in the streets, there were sirens in the distance, and there was an eerie calm of a seemingly abandoned city. I continued to walk, faster now, as I made my way south down the avenue, staring up at the blackness that took over the sky.

I will never forget the next moments of that day: the vision of the South Tower falling, the sound of my mom’s voice when we finally got through to each other, the feeling of complete and utter hopelessness as we were told we couldn’t get off of the island, and the absolute surrender to whatever was to come next.

But that's not all that stays with me now when I look down at the newly rising tower on the south tip of Manhattan. That’s not what stays with me when someone starts talking about that day or reminisces about their own personal 9/11 experience.

What stays with me is this: on that day, in that moment, for a fleeting time in our history, this city was united and people came together. It’s actually something I’ve tried really hard to hold onto.

When I first got to this city, it was shiny and new and filled with possibilities. It was also grungy and cold and filled with strangers. It was the place I’d dreamed about and nothing like I’d thought it would be. It was the city I figured I’d play in for a few years and then leave to get on with my "real" life. But it’s the city that ended up cradling me during the craziest and most exciting decade of my life so far.

I’m not interested in debating the politics of what led to or came after that day. I’m not interested in the conspiracy theories and the what if’s that will forever surround that moment and this country. What I’m interested in is holding onto that feeling of being united and remembering that it’s possible. Not in some Pollyanna, “let’s just hold hands and sing Kumbaya” kind of way, either. But in the practical “I’ve seen this happen, I know it’s possible," kind of way. And I consider myself one of the lucky ones, because lots of people can go through their entire lives wondering if it’s possible or not. And now I don’t have to wonder.

People can be incredibly kind and generous and people can be horribly malicious and cruel. And on that day, in those moments, I witnessed both in their purest forms. I saw it in the crumbling towers and felt it as I was guided through the city by a man covered in ash and rubble from the North Tower from which he ran.

So today, just like every year on this day, I choose to look at the skyline I’ve grown to call home and remember the darknessandthe light. To know that it’s possible, to take a breath and relax as tourists stop in the middle of the sidewalk in awe of the city I sometimes take for granted, and to remember those who don’t have the luxury of being here today to know what’s possible.

None of us will ever forget, I don’t even think we could if we tried. But what I hope we can also remember is that it’s possible to come together, it’s possible to be just a little bit kinder, just a little bit more patient, just a little bit…more.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

My 40th birthday is approaching at a rapid rate,
and while I’m pretty excited for what the next decade has in store, I’ve also
been taking stock. Like, hey Beck, are you better off now than you were 10
years ago and what have you learned? What are you still learning? What are you
sort of thinking about learning but don’t want to devote your time to yet? What
do you not care to ever learn? And believe it or not, these are helpful
categories by which to live your life. I mean, don’t start categorizing your
life this way if you’re nailing it. You do you. But for me, I work well with
lists. And repetition. And at least thinking
about self-improvement, which is step one. Oh, and spoiler alert: I’m terrible
at taking my own really helpful advice, like, 75-80% of the time. So do with
that what you will.

Basically, if I look back over the last ten, five, or two
years of my life and I’m more or less making the same mistakes without any
tangible improvements anywhere, um, wtf. What’s the point? I’m not saying
change your personality every few years – that would make you a psychopath or a
politician. Neither are things you should life-goal. But if everyone else is
always the problem or you’re 15 pounds heavier than you’d like and it’s been a
decade? Either change it or embrace it, but for the love of God, please stop
talking about it. Which is what I tell myself every single day. And then I eat cake to silence that know-it-all
voice inside of me and she is happy and full and lulls off into a deep, dark
sleep.

Sorry, I’m back.

Anyway, since I’m trying to get and keep my compass
straight, one of the ways in which I’m choosing to do this is by sharing, which
holds me accountable and gives you something to read and judge and feel
superior to! But since you’ve all volunteered to be here, you guys are the best
captive audience. You chose this! You signed up for this! (hears Road Runner
sound as readers run far, far away from the blog as they yell “just tell me
about your underpants! You’re not Oprah!”)

Well, that was nice while it lasted. Hi mom and dad! Thanks
for continuing to read.

So today I’m looking back at question one: are you better
off now than you were 10 years ago and what have you learned?

Well, let’s assess: Ten years ago I was picking up the
pieces of a seriously failed relationship with a seriously wrong guy who I was
seriously in love with for reasons I struggle to remember now, which is good
and bad. I was pretty sure I’d never have kids and wasn’t really keen on the
idea overall – why on earth would I want to commit my life to diaper duty and
raising little humans when I was living paycheck-to-paycheck in a rundown one
bedroom apartment in New Jersey with my cat? To be fair, I’m pretty sure the
little humans didn’t want me as their mom then, anyway, as “hot mess” does not
a good mom make.

But the end of that relationship was a turning point for me.
One that would either define me or not: it was my choice. It was messy and
humiliating and raw and haunting. And, if I’m being honest, it took me longer
than I’d like to admit to really, truly get past it. But holy crap, even I got tired of hearing myself be sad
after a while, though my friends and family were too kind to say that first. And
I decided that I needed to do something tangible, I needed to set a goal and
stick with it, and I needed it to work. God, did I need it to work.

Meanwhile, during this time, I was in the first year of a
job that I desperately wanted as my career, yet struggled to find my footing with
for a while before getting it right. However, the silver lining is that this
job was filled with really incredible people who have stayed friends long after
leaving those four walls. Not the least of whom was CB. And since I had a lot
more free time on my hands all of a sudden and a lot of demons to chase me all
over Hudson County, I decided to take up running with him and some others who
took to the Hoboken sidewalks each day at noon to run and talk and get some
fresh air (I made up the “and talk” part because CB did not enjoy the “and talk”
part most days. He’d prefer I’d “and not talk,” but he had the added luxury of
being way faster than me, so he would literally just run away.)

Sadly, one of the best post-running pictures of me.

Um, and when I say that I “took up running,” I mean that the
first few months I ran it was hard to tell because I looked more like a sweaty,
doughy, pale girl who was speed-walking wrong. Thankfully, my coworkers were
too nice and encouraging to admit that I really should just stop and go have a
doughnut. Instead, we struck up conversations and friendships and, before I
knew it, I was running! I mean, I was still sweaty and doughy and pale, but I
wasn’t speed-walking wrong anymore! And I was starting to feel better.

Sure, there were still days there where I’d run so fast and
hard and alone, even while surrounded by friends, because life isn’t a movie
and emotions aren’t black and white. But the alone days receded into the
background over time and a handful of friends and coworkers signed up for
10ks, half marathons, and full marathons almost solely because, I think, they
felt bad for me. And my “leadership skills” (which my daughter’s cartoon has
taught me is a nicer word than “bossy”) were persuasive as hell.

Before I knew it, I’d finished my first marathon. And it was
just shy of two years after what I thought was the end of life as I knew it.
And, in all honesty, it was. THANK GOODNESS. And like that, my story was
changing. Goal set; goal reached. Hmmmm……

What did I learn? I learned that heartbreak is real and you
can’t fake your way through it. I learned that friendship is real, and you need
to lean when you need to lean. I learned that my family is strong, supportive,
and fiercely protective and they listened to me cry and make mixed tapes
through my feelings for a way long time. I learned the bumper-sticker truism
that you can’t control what happens to you, but you sure as hell can control
how you respond to it. I learned that some people lie. I learned to believe people
when they show you who they, good and bad. I learned that crying isn’t the worst thing and
laughter doesn’t go away. I learned that the depths of some people and their willingness to help will humble you, and you won't know how to ever say thank you, and they're fine with that. I learned that everything is temporary. I learned
that cats are great company. I learned that hard work does pay off. I learned how to live alone. I learned how to be
scared and do it anyway. I learned that there’s always a next chapter. I
learned to find my voice and how bad it feels when you don’t use it. I learned
how to run! And I learned when to stay.

And you know what else I learned? That I’m terrible at
dating. Like, really bad. Like, when
friends are feeling down they ask me to re-tell stories they’ve heard 50 times
about various dates I’ve been on over the last 10 years. Like, there’s a reason I stayed home with my cat
and watched all five seasons of Gilmore Girls on Friday nights, you guys.
Like, I’m epically bad at it.

Oh! Which taught me the very important lesson that I still
exercise routinely: PLEASE look at who you’re texting before you hit send.
Please. I’m begging you.

Monday, August 14, 2017

The other day I was talking to some co-workers about a time,
years ago, when CB and I were just friends and one of them said “I just love
the love story of the two of you.” And I laughed, because hearing your
relationship described as a love story sounds odd unless you’re, like, a Disney
character. Or Harry and Sally. But this week marks our three year wedding
anniversary, and as I look back over these last three years, I can’t help but
see the eight that came before it, bringing us to this place in time, looking
at our two daughters giggling in hysterics on our bed over nothing in
particular except how fun it is to be little.

And what I see over these last eleven years is a man I met
at the tender age of 28, who shook my hand and welcomed me to the very first
day of work at my new job. We sat next to each other and shared a cubicle wall,
and what CB didn’t realize was that the simple act of being nearby meant that I’d
talk to him about everything, endlessly, for the next several years (or the
rest of his life…). He didn’t have to do too much responding,
just the occasional nod/interjection to let me know that he was still
awake/sitting there. And that suited us both just fine, as it turned out. But
over the course of the first year of working together, I chipped away at his
determination to keep his personal life and professional life separate and
private. He shared with me, once, that he didn’t like making a big deal out of
his birthday, and certainly not at work. And so of course I figured out when
his birthday was and made sure to put balloons on his chair, complete with a
card and a cupcake so that he felt celebrated and important. It was clear to me
early on that he didn’t really know what was good for him and just needed his
world expanded a bit – in the form of balloons and sugar, mostly.

Then, about a year and a half into working together, a
relationship I’d been in for years ended painfully. I wasn’t keen to talk about
it much, which made CB the perfect person to tell. So on a Monday morning in
September, I walked over to his desk and whispered – a first for our relationship
– and filled him in that it was over. As I started to walk away, he stood up and
said: “C’mon, let’s go to that milkshake place I told you about. I know you can
drink a milkshake at 9am, that’s right up your alley.” And so we went. And it
never came up again, unless I wanted it to. He never asked me for any of the
sordid details – the only person in my life able to make that claim - though over the years I provided them here and
there. Which was one of the first signs to me that this guy was different. And
trustworthy. And seriously knew how to make me feel better in times of need!

So it should go without saying that we were soon more than
just co-workers and running buddies, we were friends. He mistakenly introduced
me to a large portion of his family/friend circle on his 30th
birthday at happy hour one night, and as he says, “that was the beginning of
the end.” While everyone else assumed we were into each other, we were very
clear that we were not. However, true to form, they ignored us both and
insisted we should just give up the charade and fall in love already. Which we
promptly did about five years later, thankyouverymuch.

And when we did, there was no turning back. This thing that
wasn’t a thing, then became a thing, now sees us as parents to a 2-year-old and
a 7-month-old. It’s seen us spend the last three years excitedly awaiting our
first daughter. And getting hit with the shock of new parenthood and total
exhaustion. Figuring out how to fight and forgive, and learning that one of us
needs to be well-slept at all times for the two of us to balance life without a
knife-fight. It has seen us excitedly awaiting our second daughter, while
figuring out how on earth we’re going to have two babies with two different
sets of needs. It’s seen us having zero idea what two kids under two was going
to feel like, but mainly just relishing in the fact that all four of us get out
the door each day with our clothes right-side out most of the time.

It’s seen
us poorly navigating the Hong Kong airport, giving life to the now commonly-used phrase
“We would for sure be the first couple kicked off of the Amazing Race.” It’s seen us forgetting to say hi to each other and then
remembering how important that is each day. It’s seen us sleeping on the floor
of the living room together as each of our girls enjoyed their own room during
sleep-training. It’s seen us doing the
Parent Zombie Shuffle through our mornings, packing diaper bags and refilling
diaper bins and cleaning up literal spilled milk and sticky, syrup-y tables. It’s
seen us laughing through almost every experience we’ve had, and crying when it
was needed. It’s seen for-real fear in our eyes during pregnancy and
childbirth, and for-real relief at their end. It’s seen us
collapsing onto the couch at 7:30 each night after we’ve put both kids to bed,
the house quiet, and our will to cook anything other than a salad at an
all-time low. It sees us talking about an episode of “El Chapo” that one of us
couldn’t get through because it’s an hour of reading television and that totally defeats the purpose, you guys.
But since it’s such a good show, I depend on CB to stay up until 8:30pm and
read it all so he can fill me in on what happened after El Chapo crossed over
the border to El Salvador because it was just about to get crazy! It sees us
realizing that I’m “The Throw Up Parent” because the other parent in the equation
starts to dramatically gag and potentially vomit when he sees, hears, or smells
it. It sees us still laughing at his cheesy puns and my ridiculous sports
observations and knowing each other’s “look” for everything from “I know,
right? This person is ridiculous,” to “I know, right? I can tell you definitely
want to scratch my head while we watch ‘Flipping Out’ right now, so let’s do
this!”

And it sees us having no idea what we were in for when we said
our vows and laughing that we ever thought we had a clue. Because while
sleeping on the floor of your living room and cleaning up vomit does not make
for great wedding vows, as it turns out, it does make for a pretty great life. And our
vows still hold true…except for the one where he promised never to leave his
dishes next to or in the sink when the dishwasher was empty. But overall, they’re
still going strong!

Monday, August 7, 2017

Asked what year it was as I was filling out a check. TO BE
FAIR, I wrote “2017,” so I’m still with the times. But as I wrote it I was like
“it definitely isn’t 2017. Crap, is it 2016 or 2018? Oh no, I don’t know what
year it is and I’ve either gained or lost time!” So then I double-checked real
quick with CB and he was like “how about you get some sleep and I’ll finish
doing whatever it is that you’re doing.”

Poured my coffee into a baby bottle. Which is sort of genius
because, convenience. We have more bottles than we do regular cups, I’m pretty
sure. But also, I then almost fed it to our baby, which hasn’t been discussed
explicitly on BabyCenter or anything, but I’m guessing it’s frowned upon since
she just started being able to gum her applesauce.

Had an entire conversation about me wetting the bed, even
though I didn’t wet the bed, but my husband figured it could be a possibility
and so we had the conversation much later than we should’ve. Like, CB thought
maybe I’d wet the bed, made the bed anyway,
and so when I pulled the covers back to go to bed later that night there was
still a big wet spot.

Me: “Ugh, I totally forgot that I spilled Fiona’s bottle
here this morning and now it’s still wet!”
CB: “Oooh, is that what that was?”
Me: “Wait, you made the bed knowing that it was wet?”
CB: “Yeah, I thought it would dry. And I didn’t know what it
was.”
Me: “What did you think, that I wet the bed or something?”
CB: “I mean, I wasn’t sure….”
Me, laughing: “We have so many problems! First, you thought
it was entirely possible that I wet the bed. Which I should be offended by, but, fair enough point. But second, the fact that you thought that
maybe this was pee and then just made the
bed anyway disturbs me.”
CB, laughing: “I thought it would dry!”
Me: “I never want to sleep in pee-dried sheets!”

And then we started laughing too hard to talk.

So, you know, if you haven’t done any of these things in the
last month…you’re winning. Happy Monday!

Thursday, August 3, 2017

The other day I got copied on an email from a co-worker who
was emailing our building admin to tell her that there was a “very strong smell
of gas.” Apparently, everyone around me was getting the “very strong smell of
gas” as well. And this turned out to be for good reason, as the building admin
replied that they were using some sort of torch and laying tar on the roof and
so that’s why everyone was smelling it.

So I emailed a co-worker/friend and said “bad sign that I
didn’t notice?” and he wrote back “a bit.” But then I couldn’t tell if he was
kidding because, no joke, I didn’t smell a thing. So I was like “no,
seriously….are you still smelling it? Like, it’s currently happening as we type
this?” And he confirmed that he was not joking, it currently smelled, and wtf
is wrong with me?

Which then led to a rabbit-hole Google search that lasted
nearly 30 minutes to figure out what I was dying from, other than gas-related
brain death.

And we laugh, but this is concerning. Not because I’m dying
of something and my lack of smell is the first sign. I mean, that might be it,
but that doesn’t concern me. What does
concern me is that I can literally be oblivious to the “strong smell of gas”
that all other human beings around me are experiencing, yet I literally have to
leave my desk with someone is eating loudly in my vicinity.

Other things I haven’t noticed in real life:

A giant crane that was outside of my work building for two
years, that I walked underneath every single day, and didn’t notice until a
co-worker casually mentioned it and I said the words “what crane?” and meant
them.

A giant driving range along the side of a road I would run
by on a weekly basis without noticing it until CB casually mentioned it one day
and I said the words “what driving range?” and meant them.

A sliding glass door that my face met at full speed when I
was in high school, so violently that my friends then put a giant, taped X on
the glass so I wouldn’t do it again. Because that was a likely outcome. And I was not drinking.

A regular bedroom door that my face met at full speed when I
was at a New Year’s Eve party a few years ago . Thankfully, only one very nice
friend witnessed it as I tried to casually walk away as if it hadn’t happened.
I was drinking.

Yet, if someone is eating a banana nearby, or using the
wrong version of “there/their/they’re” in an email, or clicking their pen
during a meeting, IT’S ALL I CAN HEAR/SEE. Which says something about me, though
it’s unclear what that something is. Mainly, it tells me that my children
should depend on their father for the big picture stuff but come to me if they
want to know the best way to multi-task what you’re doing while counting the
amount of times someone slurps their soup during lunch. Which is a skill, if
you’re me, because otherwise you’d be unemployable because all you can do is
focus on the fact that they’re the worst.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

So yesterday afternoon a memo circulated around my office stating that, due to necessary replacement of a water main, our office wouldn’t have running water during working hours. And then there was a list of nearby places who would have running water that offered to let us pee at their building for the day instead.

Which basically
should’ve led to me emailing my boss to tell him that I would not be at work on
Wednesday. Or, more precisely, I’d be in NYC and about a block away from work,
but in the nearby bathroom most of the day because I pee every hour since
hydration is important and maybe my kidneys are malfunctioning due to
over-watering? Either way, don’t expect productivity out of me today, career,
because I’ll be busy remembering the three-digit passcode associated with the
down-the-street bathroom on the 9th floor that inexplicably is passcode
protected from all of none of the people who work on that floor (it’s an empty
floor).

But I didn’t send
such an email because I’d like to keep an air of professionalism, so instead, I
put all of that embarrass yourself energy into panic-talking to the security
guard at the front desk of the bathroom-rental building I have visited four
times already today. And we all know I do this, the panic-talking thing, but
why do I always feel the need to double-down and make it worse?

Me: “Hi, I’m just
here from the building down the street and we were told we could use a bathroom
on the 9th floor.”
Security guard: “Uh
huh.”
Me: “Oh, ok, so it’s
ok for me to go up? I don’t need to sign anything?”
SG: “No ma’am.”
Me, giggling for
some reason?: “Oh ok, I guess that makes sense that I don’t have to sign in
every time I want to pee.”
SG: staring at me.
Me: “Ok, so any
elevator is fine?”
SG: “Yep.”

Me, pushing button
and waiting. And sweating.

Me: “God, wouldn’t
it be awful if I had IBS or something? Those poor people. I’d probably just not
come to work.”
SG, cracking a
smile: “That’d be bad.”
Me: “Right? I should
be grateful I guess….That I’m not one of those people….Or that I don’t have a
stomach bug--”

“Ding!”

Me, thankfully
getting on the elevator, doors closing: “Thanks!”

And then I went back
three more times. And each time she would see me, she’d put her head down and
pretend to be doing something else. As you do when you’ve really enjoyed your
interaction with someone who can’t stop talking about potentially sh*tting
their pants.

Anyway, if you’re
peeing at your own leisure without inputting a passcode every time, consider
today a success, people!

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

So I’ve been on this, apparently, never-ending journey of
trying to be a little bit better each day. Or at least each week. For sure each
month. Or, like, every quarter definitely.
And part of this journey is to not let the little things bother me so much
since they’re unimportant nuisances that only get me aggravated and have no
real place or meaning in the world. EXCEPT THEY’RE IMPORTANT and nobody seems
to care.

So what are these
little things? Below is a very abridged list because this blog could go on for
eternity. To be clear, though, this is not a passive-aggressive list aimed at CB,
though he should definitely pay attention to a few just for his own
self-improvement purposes. In general, however, this is aimed at society. And,
I mean, if you’re being honest, maybe this is less about me having to change my
reaction to these atrocities and more
a public service to humanity to get it together already.

Let’s proceed:

Not clearing your
time on the microwave.

People, this should be considered a hate crime. And for some
reason, when it’s an uneven number left on the screen, I mentally melt even
more. I know this is an unhealthy obsession, but living with a man who never clears the time is like living an
awake nightmare. And then coming to work and walking among others who never clear the time is almost more than
I can take.

Not pulling the
shower curtain closed.

Less egregious than the microwave time, for sure, but still
pretty offensive to my senses.

Leaving cabinets open.

We’ve been over this before and I do believe it may have
been in my wedding vows because I’m the ultimate catch and CB is so lucky.

Chewing.

If I can hear you chewing, I’m unable to focus on anything
else. And the saliva chew sound is the ultimate worst. I used to actually have
to get up from the table in high school when my dad would eat a banana. My ears
were going to explode and my anger would rage like a hot volcano just beneath
the surface. Since that’s a normal response to someone eating a banana at
breakfast.

This sign.

This sign is a few blocks from my house. This is a professionally made sign. Who didn’t notice this? WHO DIDN’T NOTICE
THIS?

Wearing furry slipper
shoes outside.

Ok, so it’s possible we’re getting out of “pet peeve”
territory and more into just annoying trends. But please tell me you’ve noticed
and fought hard against this trend? For some reason this summer I’ve noticed an
inordinate amount of women wearing what look to be flip flops with fur on them.
Like fuzzy slippers that housewives in the 1950s wore, except now they’re
outside.

Yes, I realize it’s risky to come back to blogging out of
the blue with a pet peeve rant, but I feel this is why you come here. Straight
talk from an insane person. Please tell me I’m
not alone here. And what have I left out? (insert a long list from CB here who
has to hear this living list on a weekly basis….)

Monday, April 24, 2017

As a mom, I spend a lot of time thinking about our kids, who
they may become, what I hope for them, etc. And since CB and I have lofty aspirations for the girls, our overall hope is that they aren’t giant a-holes. I mean, the
toddler age does resemble some a-hole adults who I've encountered, but it’s more akin to my
drunk friends and me in college. Like the other day, my toddler started crying
– with full, thick tears – because I wouldn’t let her repeatedly bang her head
up against the wall and told her to be kind to her body. And earlier that day,
she threw herself down onto the ground and started tantrum-crying for CB
because he helped her out of her car seat and was holding her book bag. We’re
such monsters.

So as I walk through life and observe those around me, I
realize that I’m focused much less on, say, what career path they choose to
take and much more on them never becoming the people I'm about to describe below.

Dear Girls,

Please don't be:

The “that’s not my
job” guy.

This person can either actually
say those words or simply imply them by their actions. Either way, I loathe him.

Example:

I was at Starbucks the other day and they’d run out of half
and half. Since I like my coffee to resemble nothing really all that close to
coffee, I searched until I saw someone in a Starbucks uniform who wasn’t
insanely busy. And actually, I sort of nailed it since this kid was slowly
walking out of the back room without any sense of purpose. Perfect!

Me: “Excuse me, would you be able to refill the
half-and-half? It seems to be all gone.”
Him, half-looking at me: “Uhhh….” And then he trailed off.
Me, standing there looking around, worried that I’d somehow
asked a customer this question by accident. But no! The uniform!: “Oh I’m
sorry, are you on break?”
Him, still half-looking at me: “No……”
Me, starting to get nervous out of being confused:
“Oh….ok……so would you be able to bring out more half and half?”
Him, walking towards the counter, away from me: “Could you
ask someone else? I have to do something.”

And then he walked over to the counter. Where he got a
plastic cup of ice. And then walked into the back again without looking at me.

So.

Don’t be that guy, is my point. And while this is an egregious
example of someone literally giving zero f’s, there are way more subtle
examples everywhere. So, just don’t be this guy in spirit or in practice, ok?
Because, as my children, then I’ll be a failure as your mom and I’ve reserved
being a mom failure for those times (called current life) where I give you mac
n’ cheese three times in one week and that’s only because I ran out of frozen
chicken nuggets. Also, don’t bother emailing me about these choices, mom-shamers,
because I’m onto you and I, too, give zero f’s.

The person who sends these
emails to my Spam folder.

Have higher aspirations, kids.

The person who takes
up the entire damn sidewalk.

You know exactly who you are. You are the person or persons
who either (a) walk(s) your dog on an insanely long leash that stretches across
the entire NYC sidewalk. Hey, guess what? Other people live in NYC and also use
this sidewalk occasionally. I’d like to not have to jump-rope your dog’s leash
so that I can get to the subway. And the fact that this seems to annoy you that I’m doing this, makes me want
to just scratch at you until you understand how sharing space works. Or (b) walk(s)
with your group of friends and there are four or five of you and you somehow
think that I should just scooch on over to the street to walk around you guys. Firstly,
I can see that you have friends. Rubbing it in my face that you have friends
who can walk in a straight line doesn’t make me feel less than. It makes me
want to also scratch at you. But secondly, who taught you rules of the road? Because
that’s the person I need not to be for my own children, so that people don’t
scratch at them publicly or shoulder-check them on purpose out of
sidewalk-rage. Not saying I've ever done that, but....I can imagine it happening, is what I'm trying to say.

The person who gets
onto a packed train with their backpack on.

Ok, so I realize that I might look a little unstable with
this one, since I actually pulled out my phone and took a picture on the
crowded train of the guy shoved against me with his damn backpack on. Those are
my angry sunglasses in the photo as well. I was too embarrassed to actually
just “click” right in his face, so I did it all stealth-like from underneath.
But you get the point.

You’re the worst, this guy, and everyone is thinking it.
I can’t believe you didn’t hear me hate-thinking about your choices during this
entire 7 minute trip. I’m a loud thinker! And I also tried doing the shame-look
at you a few times, too, but you either didn’t care, couldn’t see my eyes
through my sunglasses, or thought I was trying to pick you up.

So don’t be this guy, again, is my point.

The person who needs a safe space from ideas that are different. Please don't be that person. Learn to live in the discomfort that is differing viewpoints. Viewpoints that make your blood boil and stand against the very things that you are? Figure out how to counter those viewpoints logically, rationally, and go ahead and throw some passion in there. Rise above. But please don't tell me you need a safe space. You know who needed a safe space? Malala Yousafzai. You know who doesn't get a safe space? Me, when someone gets on the train with their backpack, no matter how badly I want one.

I do realize that some of these seem city-specific, and that some make me sound crazy - that's not news. But
again, my dear daughters, it’s not just the practice, it’s the spirit behind the intent. Which is
what I will explain to you once you're old enough to understand. At the
moment, I find myself breathing in and out slowly and with purpose when you ask me for milk and then I say “Ok, let’s go get your milk” and then you start crying hysterically because I left the room to get you milk. So we’re a few stages
away from the “don’t be that guy” conversation, I do realize this. But it's coming. And now we're all prepared.

Monday, April 17, 2017

The 1980s were filled with lots of pretty terrible ideas: big
hair, ‘New Coke,’ and shoulder pads come to mind. But one 80s-specific trend
that was, in theory, a terrible idea
turned into one of the best little things to ever happen to me.

Back around 1984 or 1985, my elementary school hosted a
balloon launch. But not just any old balloon launch where a bunch of little
kids stand around in a field and watch balloons fly up into the air, never to
be seen again. Nooooooo no no no. Remember: this was the 1980s. This balloon
launch was special. Because at the end of each balloon was the FULL name and COMPLETE
home address of each and every little tiny person who attended my school. And since I was one of the said little tiny
people at that time, I dutifully filled out my little 5x9 index card and
launched it into the air for strangers to find so that they could write back to
me and teach me about being pen pals! Or, you know, come and murder my family
and me in cold blood.

Luckily for the 1980s, kids were busy being warned about the
dangers of people luring them into their windowless vans with puppies and Halloween
candy with razor blades in them to worry about a silly old pen-pal endeavor.
So, you know, launching balloons into the air with all of our detailed contact
information attached was perfectly fine! What could go wrong?

Well, for me, nothing. Because while friends and even my own
sister had some luck with random strangers finding their weird, lonely balloons
and writing them back once or twice, I had the great fortune of my weird,
lonely balloon wandering from a park in Michigan into a field in Meadville, PA for Mr. Fox and his dog
to find. And his wife, Anna, wrote me back. And she continued writing me back
for the next 32 years.

Mrs. Fox was never Anna to me, she was always Mrs. Fox
since I was raised during a time when respecting your elders was a thing and
I was 8 years old. And even on her return address label she wasn’t Anna. She
was always Mrs. Dan Fox.

She had beautiful, old-school penmanship. The kind of penmanship
where you could tell there was time spent
practicing. Unlike my penmanship, which looks a little like a cross between
a ransom note and someone writing their name with their non-dominant hand.

She would write on flowery stationary – both sides – and ask
all sorts of questions about school and my friends and my hobbies. She’d
remember every single birthday. She’d
remember every single holiday. At
Christmas, she’d always send an ornament and a gift.

When I moved from Dearborn to Farmington, her letters
followed. When I moved from elementary to middle school, her letters followed.
When I moved from high school and then college – her letters followed. And all
the while, we never met. I think we exchanged phone numbers once – there may
have even been one phone call back in the day. But otherwise, it was a
relationship built upon words. A relationship built upon the randomness of the
wind and the lost art of letter-writing. And I cherished it for three decades.

When I moved to New York City, Mrs. Fox’s letters followed.
And, to be clear, they were always from “Dan and Anna Mary.” But I’m pretty
sure, similar to how CB’s names are on the Christmas cards we send out each
year, Mr. Fox had little involvement with the actual mailing and writing. But
he, too, was a huge part of my life in stories.

I learned of their nieces and nephews, their travels, their
church activities. I wondered – more than once, but never to them – how two
people who were so clearly made-to-be-grandparents never had children of their
own, while quietly being grateful that they’d adopted me as their honorary
granddaughter. I’d sometimes let six months go by between letters, always apologizing
and sometimes rushing through a brief update of my oh-so-important life and,
without fail, about 3-6 weeks later, I’d get another flowery letter in the
mail.

In 2009, the flowery letter I got also had a newspaper
clipping attached, and it was news that Mr. Fox had passed away at the age of
91. And some questions were answered that day, via his obituary. Mainly the ones
too delicate to ever ask about.

Nonetheless, while the handwriting got a little less legible
over the years, the stories never got shorter and the questions never waned. As
she aged, she seemed to cherish the photos I’d send her of various life events
or random fun things I thought she might enjoy.

Which is why I was a little concerned when, last spring, I
didn’t receive a response back after I wrote her with news of my second
pregnancy. She’d been so excited to see the pictures of my littlest – and now
oldest – daughter growing up so fast in her first year, so I figured it was
likely just the result of older age, some health issues over the years, and less energy. So I wrote again over the summer,
right around RJC’s first birthday, complete with pictures and updates. No word.
Then Halloween came and went without a card – which had never happened in all
of the years we’d been corresponding. And then my fall update went unanswered. Then my birthday passed. And
then I started Googling.

I knew she’d had a stroke within the last few years – she’d
written of it often and apologized for her handwriting, to which I would laugh
and tell her I was just happy she was still writing letters! And each time I’d type
her name into the search field, I’d hold my breath and wait.

Nothing.

A few months later. Search field. Hold breath. Nothing.

And then today: search field. Hold breath. BING. There it
was. The very first result.

Mrs. Dan Fox; Mrs. Fox; Anna was gone. Passed away at her
home, no further information given about the cause, though I have a few
guesses. All of them peaceful, since that’s how life should work.

Thank you for showing me love all of these years. Thank you
for being my third grandmother. Thank you for caring. Thank you for
writing. Thank you for following me through the first half of my life. Thank
you for finding my balloon that day.

You will be missed. Your ornaments will hang on my tree and your flowery stationary will
stay safely tucked inside my keepsake box next to the bed so that I can share
your stories with my kids and remind them that strangers can become family, and
family isn’t always made up of the people with whom you share your DNA. Hell,
in my case, you never even get to meet some of them. But that has little import,
as it turns out, in the end.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Full disclosure: I wanted to have this written and ready for Valentine's Day. And then I blinked and it was March and I was like, crap. But then I realized that I could be nice to CB on days that weren't mandated by Hallmark and so...here we are. When I was younger, I thought I knew what love was. Real, true, it'll get you through anything kind of love. And the reason I knew this is because I had a very specific list of what that love needed to look and act like in order to win my heart. It wasn't scientifically proven or anything, but I was pretty sure I'd nailed it. The list included: TallDark hairFunnySmartLived close enough to me so I didn't have to exert too much effortAbout my ageAmbitiousCuriousSmelled goodCould support himself...and the deep, thoughtful list goes on and on. Looking back on it, I didn't have extraordinarily high expectations. I also didn't have any idea what love actually looked like. And then I met a tall guy with dark hair who was funny and smart and lived close to me and was about my age and was ambitious and curious and smelled good and could support himself. So I married him.Luckily for me, he also had characteristics that actually mattered. And over the last two and a half years, we've gotten married and had two kids. So we're nothing if not efficient (efficiency! Also on the list.) Anyway, having our first daughter felt like a bit of an up-hill battle, at least for me physically. I've written here before about the health issues I faced and the after-math of postpartum stuff that I dealt with, and so I won't delve back into that. But my second pregnancy was much smoother. The only real issue is that my pants got tighter, faster, and I was chasing around a toddler this time. Other than that? Smooth sailing. Until, of course, it wasn't. The morning my second daughter was born, we took the typical hospital family photo - me in bed, looking stunning and well-rested, holding our little girl, CB next to me looking equally well-rested, clean-shaven, and handsome as ever. And when most people look at that photo they probably see the obvious - two happy parents and one confused little newborn. But when I look at that picture, I see something else. Actually, it's what's not in that picture that stands out to me the most. What's not in that picture is the 24 hours leading up to it when I was so violently ill that CB would be awoken from a dead sleep on a narrow hospital couch and run to my side with a bucket while holding my hair back so I could dry-heave from the magnesium coursing through my system. I mean, don't get me wrong, we were grateful for the drug that kept my body sedated enough not to seizure or stroke, but there are only so many times you can hurl in front of your husband before you start to worry that the bloom might be off of the rose....What's not in that picture is CB standing by my bedside while I lay there so uncomfortable and feverish and IN LABOR that the only thing that brought me comfort was him gently scratching my head and running cool washcloths over my face. Also what's not in that picture was how terrible my hair looked because he scratched my head so many times that it looked like bird's had nested on my skull and were violently looking for food to no avail. And he didn't tell me because "you had enough going on, I didn't want you worrying about your hair." Um, the man knows nothing about me. Have we met? You must ALWAYS tell me when my hair doesn't look good, because it's always on the verge of breaking out of my control and it's my number one fear in life to look exactly how I looked for, apparently, three whole days. God. That should've been on my list. Anyway. What's not in that picture is the husband and father caught between not wanting to leave my side and needing to go be with his littlest daughter in the NICU so she could be held and kissed and loved. And what's not in that picture are the countless sleepless nights, endless poopy diapers, blissfully happy cuddles, tear-inducing laughter, and outright delirium that accompany most new parents. The picture doesn't show the five years that led to this life we love. Or the people and places who paved the way for us to get there. It doesn't show the compromise, arguments, shared values, stolen moments, and everyday routine that goes into making a marriage work. And mostly, what's not in the picture, is just how bad my hair looked.And for that, I'm eternally grateful. And so this is the part where I'd wish CB a Happy Valentine's Day and call it a win. But now that idea is shot and so, I'll simply throw him a high five and say what I always say: "Nailed it." Happy Wednesday, everyone!